


In Space, Cake Eat You

by dakhtar



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Shiro and his cooking fails, Shiro's family drama, Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), yes i put stove as a character and what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 04:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15331308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakhtar/pseuds/dakhtar
Summary: Shiro, in his infinite wisdom as Team Leader (capital letters and all), decides to try his hand at cooking when their residential chef, Hunk, gets injured during a battle. It... does not go well.At all.(“Look, Hunk,” he spoke up, decision made as he rose and picked up his own plate and that of Keith’s right next to him. “How ‘bout you go relax for once? I’ll clean up.”)





	In Space, Cake Eat You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Voltron Gen Mini Bang](https://voltrongenminibang.tumblr.com/)! I was able to nab up [hauntedorangemobile](https://hauntedorangemobile.tumblr.com/)'s amazing art (embedded in fic), and write this disaster of a fic for it. Enjoy! (Also this is the _second_ fic where Hunk is indisposed for the majority of the fic due to an injury and I don't even know _why_ *sobs*)

It hit him one day, out of nowhere, that they were just five humans stuck in the ever expanding universe with two aliens and their alien spaceship. He’d known, before, hard not to know when the only faces you saw most of the time were the exact same six people, but it had never hit him before just what, exactly, that meant.

Specifically, _how_ , exactly, they dished out the responsibilities.

There was no chore chart, no rotation to keep everyone on their toes, nothing to evenly distribute who did what and when for some sort of fairness. Everybody had just… fallen into their roles, and stuck to it.

And that was bad.

Shiro held back the worry as he watched Lance follow after Coran’s heels, the Altean eagerly listing out all the places they’d need to maintain that day, Lance looking utterly bored as he followed. He watched Pidge mutter something about returning to the boring, meticulous work of sifting through the Galra logs the castleship repeatedly intercepted, translated for their non-Galra speaking convenience. He saw Allura head off to do god knew what when she wasn’t barking orders at them, saw Keith duck out to no doubt go to the transmission room to touch base with the Blade of Marmora and the other rebel factions he’d established rapport with. And finally, Hunk, left to clean what remained of the dinner _he’d_ cooked, always left to clean up after the meals _he’d_ cooked, as if the kitchen and everything that it entailed had been foisted off on him.

That wasn’t good. Even if Hunk enjoyed cooking – even if Lance wasn’t bothered with being stuck with cleaning duty, even if Keith found purpose in being the relations officer of Voltron, even if Pidge found the droning, usually completely useless reports somehow calming – nobody could keep _enjoying_ it if they did it _everyday_.

They needed some variety. _He_ needed some variety.

And the easiest place to start with would be Hunk.

“Look, Hunk,” he spoke up, decision made as he rose and picked up his own plate and that of Keith’s right next to him. “How ‘bout you go relax for once? I’ll clean up.”

Hunk didn’t even stop as he gathered the rest of the plates with expert ease, transporting them all without losing balance even once. “Thanks, man,” the yellow paladin genuinely replied, “but I got this. Didn’t you want to talk to Matt today? Something about sector 3?”

That… was true.

Quiznak.

Coughing to stall, Shiro dropped his own plates next to the ones Hunk had already deposited and said, “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I’ll, uh… go do that.”

The cocked eyebrow Hunk shot him was questioning, but the engineer said nothing, waving Shiro off as he beat a hasty retreat.

Okay, so that hadn’t gone well, he scolded himself as he hurried down the hallways to where Keith had designated as his transmission base. He’d try again some other time, when Hunk’s ridiculously perceptive self couldn’t catch him out.

Hunk was going to relax from cooking, he’d decided. And when Shiro put his mind to something, he always got what he wanted.

#

He’d got what he wanted.

Except… this wasn’t what he’d wanted.

“Nothing to worry about, earthlings!” Coran hurriedly reassured them, twirling in place from his position in front of the active cryopod. “Hunk’ll be out before you know it!”

Shiro pressed his lips tightly together, eyes on the young genius that slept peacefully in front of him. Hunk looked perfectly alright – not a wound in sight – but he’d been overwhelmed by the Galra when they’d rushed him out of nowhere, burying him under their desperate attack. Lance had gotten him out first – like he always did whenever the yellow paladin was even remotely in harm’s way – and he’d somehow taken the whole squadron out, gotten Hunk to Blue, _and_ somehow gotten the bigger Yellow back to the castle and to Coran before coming back out to join them, bulldozing through the remaining forces like Keith on a rampage.

Shiro didn’t like that. He didn’t like the dark look on the Cuban boy’s face, or the stillness with which he stared up at his friend. He- he had _no idea_ just what the hell kind of relationship the two even had. Friends, definitely. But for how long? The two seemed _far_ too close to just have met in the Garrison. It wasn’t normal, the way they reacted when the other was in danger. And somehow, they always ended up together, every damn time something went wrong. Like when they’d been flung to different parts of the galaxy from that corrupted wormhole. Something about a water planet?

But Hunk would be fine. Coran had said so. Shiro trusted Coran impeccably. Not his _timing_ , per se, since the older man still liked to finger count every now and then, so he was going to keep a close eye on Hunk just in case he came out far earlier than Coran’s estimate, but his diagnosis? Absolutely.

But... Hunk wouldn’t be cooking anymore.

The team filtered out slowly after a while, all of them leaving one by one as the exhaustion of battle finally caught up to them. Lance and Coran murmured something to each other quietly, heads bent close in confidence, and Shiro wondered for a moment at that. They really should switch cleaning duties, have each of them get the chance to bond with the Altean. This wasn’t healthy.

None of this was healthy. But then… war.

He’d dragged four _kids_ into a damn _war_.

_Hahaue_ would be _so_ mad.

So the least he could do was cook a tasty meal for them.

Nodding to himself, Shiro left the medbay, shooting one last glance at the still conspiring Coran and Lance, neither of who noticed him leaving. He made his way to the kitchen, pleased to see it empty, and locked the door behind him. Good, no one would be able to enter unless they were Altean and had the override codes. So… only Coran and Allura, then.

He knew where the dishes were, thankfully, but everything else was a tossup, a guessing game of opening cupboards after cupboards. Even worse yet, he couldn’t identify what the stuff inside was to save his life, every packaging proudly boasting whatever it contained in proud Altean, some of the newer stuff written in the languages of whatever planet they’d (and by they’d, he meant Hunk, Coran _and_ _Lance_ – no, don’t think about how it was always ‘ _and Lance’_ when it came to Coran nowadays, don’t _think about it_ , Shiro) bought it from.

One of the items was familiar though; a rectangular, squishy brick that was essentially a loaf of bread, relieving some of the dread that had been growing at all the unfamiliar ingredients. He grabbed something else that was familiar – tomatoes, they tasted like, except they were purple and spiky and apparently really acidic if you didn’t cook them properly.

He gathered some more food stuff, confidence growing as he began recognising things he’d seen on the dinner table before, things he’d noticed Hunk using the rare times he’d been in the kitchen while the yellow paladin had been doing some meal prep. _This_ , he thought, picking something he was sure was similar to cilantro. _That_ , definitely, because it was just like cheese and who the hell didn’t like cheese? No one, that’s who.

_Baby steps, Shiro_ , he thought to himself, determination thinning his lips as he took in all the food he’d lined up on the countertop. Something filling, something warm. ( _Something easy_ , said a voice suspiciously sounding like his older sister.) Something to get Shiro’s feet wet, since he hadn’t been in a kitchen in… wow, okay, _years_. At least five.

He pulled out a knife – the medium one, since the big one Hunk liked to use genuinely scared him, and the small one just looked… _small_ – and a cutting board (at least, he _thought_ it was a cutting board, it hovered and let a beep out every time he put something new on it). Chopping up the cilantro-like thing was the work of seconds, his movements quick and easy, the rhythm of chopping up the weird purple things that tasted like tomatoes and other stuff coming to him in fits and bursts, the familiarity of it draping over his shoulders like a warm blanket.

He could almost hear the radio his mother always turned on when she was doing housework, could almost hear the strains of instruments, a high-keyed voice singing in that traditional, old as hell, way Shiro had never really liked, yet filled him with warm nostalgia now nonetheless.

The cooking pot was big and translucent, the actual cooking stove strange enough that Shiro almost had to throw the towel in defeat. But then he powered up his Galran prosthetic, held it close to one of the plates he _knew_ got hot, and – walla! – the entire stove hummed to life, a little cute jingle hailing its newfound existence.

Shiro scraped all the stuff he’d diced in, turning to the alien bread and the cheese he’d left behind. A few of the purple tomato things remained – oh, he’d forgotten about those, whoops – so he cut them up and layered them on the toast, sprinkling it with the weird, slimy cheese that gave off the faintest smell of nail polish remover.

This was good, Shiro thought, beaming as everything came together. This was _really_ good.

And then it was less good.

The pot – the clear, translucent, pot – gurgled and overflowed, shocking Shiro into taking the lid off, almost burning himself as he grabbed at it with his flesh hand. The stove gave a disgruntled little chime, and Shiro almost – _almost_ – apologised to it, before realising how ridiculous apologising to a _stove_ would be. The food inside though looked nice – the purple fruit had turned an almost space-like blue, the cilantro-tasting herb had added an almost starry sky effect to it, making the whole thing look like a condensed version of the universe, all of it contained within a pot.

And his grilled cheese sandwiches were coming along nicely as well – his Galran arm provided just the right control to make the cheese on top truly stretch and melt while keeping the bread beneath the same softness as before.

“Good job, Shiro,” he murmured to himself, grabbing the serving spoon from the hanging rack Hunk had begged Coran to install. (Lance had been there as well, Shiro’s mind pointed out, like he always was.) “Now to taste it.”

He carefully placed the spoon into the soup, stirring it slowly, vaguely impressed at the way the herb glittered and shone within the dark inkiness of the soup. He’d created art, and frankly, he didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

Sniffing at the open lid, Shiro frowned at the faint acidic smell, certain that it hadn’t been there before. He’d cooked the tomato things properly, long enough that the first traces of acid had disappeared, so why-

-the smell grew stronger.

Frown growing, Shiro peered into the pot, eyebrows drawing together as he sniffed again, nostrils flaring as it caught the strengthening stench of acid. The swirly mess of space gave off a small bubble, then another, and _another_ , until more and more bubbles popped out of its surface and released more of the acidic stench.

Shiro pulled out the serving spoon, alarmed, checking to see that he really _had_ turned off the stove, but then he noticed something. The serving spoon – the one he’d put inside – and some of the soup in it, and – right before his _eyes_ – the soup-

The soup-

-Ate right through spoon and to the ground.

Staring at the smoking remains of the spoon he held – now more a metal stick than anything else – Shiro carefully put it down and inched away, unnerved as the see-through pot continued to bubble, growing more and more angrier by the second, until-

-suddenly-

-It stopped.

Shiro held his breath, both in anticipation of something else happening and because the stench was making him light headed, and when nothing happened, slowly exhaled. Still tense, he inched ever so closer to the pot, noticing with growing alarm that the plate he’d set out with the grilled cheese had all equally reacted the same way, the plate now jagged pieces of kitchenware, the sandwich green and swampy, almost moldy. Thankfully, the countertop seemed unharmed, because hell, Shiro had no idea how he was going to replace Altean countertops. That would’ve been bad.

The pot, when he finally reached it, was still, its contents dark and muted. No more did the herbs glitter and shine within its depths, no doubt eaten away by the acid like everything else. Somehow, the pot had also survived, unharmed by whatever had happened to the spoon and the plate, cheerfully holding the universe within it’s embrace.

Carefully taking hold of the pot’s handles, Shiro took the three whole steps necessary to the industrial grade trash chute, and... uh... well…

… _disposed_ of it.

What little remained of the plate, with the monstrous variation of a cheese sandwich on it, followed the pot’s fate, the slight whooshing noise of the vacuum kicking into effect and throwing the food first through the Castle’s incinerator than into outer space reaching Shiro’s ears.

_Good_ , he distantly thought, turning back to the kitchen, eyeing the space for any evidence of his... mishap.

_Nobody shall ever know_.

#

Alright, Shiro consoled himself some time later, so food hadn’t worked. Maybe he’d started off too big, too ambitious, especially since he would’ve had to use alien ingredients and naturally he didn’t know them as well as Hunk did. So failure was a given. It was _fine_ , Shiro reassured himself, ignoring the way Pidge grumbled and swore under his arm as he carried her to her room yet again. It was _bound_ to happen, he should’ve realised, considered his lack of knowledge about the ingredients first. Even _Hunk_ had struggled those first few spicolian movements, and that boy had an uncannily perceptive tongue, just as he had an uncannily perceptive _everything_.

“I’m fine, Shiro!” Pidge huffed, struggling a little under his arm, hitching her glasses up when they threatened to fall. “At least carry me like a decent human being!”

He’d just have to try again, but this time, with something he actually _knew_. Like, _knew_ knew, knew as in he knew which ingredients to use and everything. There was Kaltenecker to consider – Shiro knew milk, after all – but Kaltenecker was a _cow_ , and Shiro didn’t have the first goddamn clue about how to milk a cow. Apparently Lance did, which was confusing and made no sense considering how Lance also looked like he hadn’t worked a day in his life considering just how smooth his hands were. Maybe it was all that moisturising.

“Shiro!”

How hard would it be to milk a cow, he wondered, eyes drifting away in thought, feet and body familiar with the route and squirming load he carried like a pack of potatoes. Udders, he pondered, couldn’t be that hard to navigate, right? All he had to do was sit with a little wooden stool, put a bucket underneath the cow’s udders, and pull them, right? Squeeze a little? Avoid the cow’s kick, if it kicked.

Or was that donkeys that kicked?

… Maybe he should leave the cow for now.

“I swear to god if you don’t let me down right the hell now Shiro, so help me god I’m going to-!”

“Hot chocolate.” Shiro breathed, steel grey eyes widening in realisation.

“-What?” Pidge blanked, twisted at the hips so she could stare at him in baffled confusion.

Shiro dropped the girl, mind racing too fast to acknowledge the startled squeak Pidge gave as she crashed to the ground and groaned. He could do it, he realised, something hot and tasty to wash down the food goo. Something _just like_ hot chocolate, because the Castle had water (and _plumbing_ , thank _god_ ) and Shiro had a prosthetic hand that could _heat_ things. And- best of all- he knew _just_ what to use as the hot chocolate alternative, because Hunk had used the exact same thing just the week before to make something that had tasted a lot like chocolate scones.

“… Shiro?”

Oh, right, Pidge.

“Go to bed, Pidge,” Shiro quickly told the girl, flapping his flesh hand at her in a _shoo_ gesture so she could _leave_. “To _sleep_ ,” he hurriedly added, “No more tech stuff tonight. What if we need to go to battle tomorrow? Can’t have our genius hacker asleep at the controls, y’know.”

Pidge stared up at him, glasses half off her face, the other half stuck on an ear. “Uuuuh…” she cleverly replied, “Okay?” And she slowly crawled into her open room, the door hissing shut behind her.

Shiro didn’t give her shut door another look, turning towards the kitchen and hurrying towards it. He didn’t run, no, that would’ve been too juvenile after all, but he may – _may_ – have… _powerwalked_ towards it. _May_.

He just really wanted hot chocolate, that was all. Perfectly innocent.

Back in the kitchen once more, Shiro locked the door behind him, keying it so only Allura or Coran could enter without his say so. He wondered absently if he should try and find a way to lock them out too, but then dismissed it, since he was sure that would take too much energy _and_ get the Alteans suspicious about _why_ exactly he wanted to be able to lock them out. He didn’t want them thinking he was going Zarkon on them or anything. One black paladin betraying them was bad enough, no need to make them worry it’d be two.

Opening up a cupboard, Shiro drew out a pot – smaller than the last one he’d used, and this time not transparent – and filled it with water. He put it on the stove – who gave a curious little chirrup on seeing him, which was impossible, because _stoves couldn’t see_ – but didn’t turn it on. Instead, he turned around to another cupboard, withdrawing a fairly large mug and putting it down next to the stove. He pulled open a wardrobe door, certain he’d seen Hunk put the hot chocolate powder somewhere around there, making a little noise of victory once found the one that looked familiar right at the very back of it.

It was a bit dusty, Shiro noted with a frown, eyeing the weird fog that passed for Altean cobwebs clinging onto the package. It was closed too – not the open one he’d seen Hunk use – but that was fine, it just meant Hunk had finished that one and thrown it away probably. No problem.

He turned the stove on, ignored the happy little beeps as the stove powered on, and waited till the water began bubbling before pouring a bit of the powder into it. He stirred it with a spoon, holding his breath in dreadful anticipation for a repeat of last time, but the spoon reined victorious and came away unharmed.

Good. The chocolate drink wasn’t pure acid.

In fact, Shiro noticed with a slowly growing smile, the chocolate drink was… looking actually normal! Just like Hunk made it – as brown as always, with the familiar scent of warm chocolate that Shiro now breathed in. He grabbed his mug as the drink bubbled on, chuckling softly when the stove congratulated his successful endeavour with a cheerful 8-bit melody.

It looked beautiful – the drink. Brown and warm and just a little bit thick; like he’d cooked it with milk rather than just water. Shiro turned off the stove and poured it into the mug filled with what he was certain was sugar, eager to try it, to have something to present to the team for joint dinner tomorrow. Nothing quite like hot chocolate to soothe the weary souls of child soldiers, alright.

( _Why_ had he let them join him in search of the Blue Lion? He could’ve used Keith’s notes and found the lion himself – Blue would’ve opened up to him if she knew what was good for her, damnit!)

The drink smelled delicious, and Shiro was sure that it would taste just as good as well. He brought it up to his nose, eyes closing in bliss as he inhaled the sweet fragrance, insides already warming with a positive glow that put his mind at ease.

This was good, he thought to himself, eyes sliding open. He raised the mug closer, ready to take a tentative, but confident, sip, and instead coming to a grinding halt as he noticed ripples across the liquid surface. The ripples grew further, even though Shiro’s arm was still; he moved the mug away from himself, noticing the ripples growing in frequency, in size, like a locally contained earthquake was shaking the contents of the mug.

And then, right before his bewildered eyes, a tiny… _seedling_ sprung free, shaking off little droplets of hot chocolate, and honest to god just- _blossomed_. Tiny pink petals elegantly shook free until they were long and drooping, like a bellflower, with a… Shiro frowned, confused, nostrils flaring as he caught the new scent again, the new, _familiar,_ scent. The scent that had followed Allura around at the very beginning, back when she’d worn her dress and kept her hair down. Back before she’d taken up a weapon and joined them on the battlefield.

Slowly, carefully, Shiro put the- the _something_ \- drink down, staring as the very present flower gently _glowed_ at him. He stared at it for a beat longer, mind strangely blank, before something had him picking it up gently within both hands and leaving the kitchen for the short trek to his bedroom.

He’d cultivate it, he decided, do what he’d just done with the rest of the powder in the package. Maybe… maybe give it to Allura, once he’d grown enough. She’d like that.

It only hit him hours later that he’d failed. _Again_.

#

_Takashi,_ the voice whispered, the echo vibrating between his ears, _itadakimasu_.

He woke up gasping.

Pitch blackness surrounded him, the paladin bedroom he’d been led to by an enthusiastic Coran eons ago eerie in its silence. Shiro stared at the ceiling as he panted, chest heaving, trying to ignore the echoes that rattled around within his ribcage and threatened to drown him whole.

He’d never liked the ocean – respected it, _feared it_ , too much to ever feel comfortable near it’s glittering surface – and yet his dreams always reminded him of it. Drowning him in fear and terror every night, sometimes multiple times, throwing him around like a tiny fish within its angry, stormy grasp of despair.

He hated it.

He _hated_ it.

And yet-

… some nights, it was the only time he ever saw his family.

Licking dry lips, Shiro blinked slowly as his mind finally began to settle, and then blinked again as the salt on his lips thrust such a vivid _need_ to the forefront of his mind.

Huh, he blinked stupidly at the ceiling, he suddenly really, _really_ , wanted some omurice.

The realisation of that one thought suddenly ignited such a fierce craving inside him it struck him speechless, the crave _refusing_ to acknowledge the fact that it was the middle of the damn night cycle and that he was tired, cranky, and _sore_. God, he just- he just wanted to _sleep_ , like _actually_ sleep, without any nightmares or even _dreams_ , even good ones.

But _damnit_ , his ears were still ringing with the echoes of his mother’s voice, of his sister’s loud, annoying laugh, of his father’s calm encouragement as he’d taught Shiro how to ride a bike, years before he’d abandoned the family for a no-name mistress.

He could- he could _smell_ his mother’s ridiculously expensive tea, could _hear_ the delicate _chink_ of fine china as she’d gone through the steps of the tea ceremony, could _feel_ her small hand gently cup his younger self’s cheek in affection, could _feel_ her even smaller hand do the same for his older self’s cheek, bidding him goodbye as he’d run away to America, run away to the stars, run away from _them_.

He wanted omurice. The craving didn’t care that he was a few seconds short of bursting into tears. And Shiro _knew_ he wasn’t going to go back to sleep, not now, not when his nose burnt and his eyes watered with the threat of tears he’d been holding back for far longer than he’d known about the Galra.

Choking back the flood of acrid emotions, Shiro kicked off what little blanket remained on the small bed, leaving it behind as he slammed the door’s control open. The hallway outside was dark as he staggered out, lit up only by the sleek blue lines of the night cycle Hunk and Pidge had talked Coran into installing. He dragged himself in the direction of the kitchen, eyes tracking over the keypads to the other paladin’s rooms, frowning when he noticed the keypads to Lance and Keith’s rooms unlit; a sign that neither of them were inside.

They weren’t in the kitchen either, Shiro noted distractedly, flicking the keypad by the door to turn on the lights. Maybe Keith was in the training room, hacking away at gladiators until he’d exhausted himself. Maybe Lance was in the control room, or in some other part of the castle Shiro didn’t know about, doing crows knew what at this time of night. He should really go exploring himself sometime, make a note of what the castle held, just in case any of it could come in use during a mission or something.

Mind hazy, Shiro blinked slowly, staring at the stove as his head went in circles about what he needed to do to keep everyone safe, to win the war, to get the kids back home to Earth, to lessen some of the stress on their shoulders with chore sheets and dumb laser noises. But his father’s dying rasp echoed in his ears, begging for forgiveness, his mother’s pained smile dragging nails down his spine, his sister’s anger buffeting like him like a hale storm, threatening to overturn him-

-The stove lit up, a quiet, questioning chirp breaking Shiro from his daze.

He could do omurice, right? Of course he could, it was- it was a staple of his childhood, his _comfort_ food, his _home_. He envied Hunk and Lance so much for the easy way they expressed their grief for their home, hated himself so much for that envy, for that _jealousy_ , when he could see just how much it tore them both apart. But…

… he hadn’t had _home_ in a long while.

Even before the Kerberos mission, home had been something he’d avoided, the ache hidden by studying and training and doing his very best to be the best that he could be. The days had blurred into weeks into months into years, and Shiro had found himself with awards and accolades, had woken up from a haze of keeping busy to an angry little kid with a truly horrendous mullet and the best damn flying he’d ever seen.

And then that same kid – Keith – had been around during the holidays, staying at the Garrison rather than going home like every other student and faculty did. And at first, Shiro had wondered-

eggs. rice. chicken.

-had asked around, found that Keith was an orphan, found that he _had_ nowhere to go, and Shiro-

steam rising, stove beeping.

-Shiro had hunted the boy down and taken him flying, waking up from what felt like a century of deep sleep since he’d left home to Keith’s bright eyes and hesitant, wary smile. And he’d wondered, then, about what he’d left behind, about the calls he’d ignored and the parcels he’d returned, about the one, singular time his sister had actually come all the way to the Garrison to confront him and had left angry and seething.

About the way Keith had walked in and frozen, the way his sister had taken one look at him, at the deer in headlights look and the way Keith immediately turned to Shiro, and had laughed hoarsely. At the way she’d called him a coward and _left_.

And then Kerberos had happened.

The stove gave an alarmed beep just as something popped, the pan on the stove sparkling into a million little stars of a thousand different rainbows. Shiro stared down at it as the stove forcibly turned the heat off, letting loose a confused little chirrup that brought something thick to Shiro’s throat.

The omurice in his mind’s eye, the omurice he remembered with such clarity, was perfectly oval and yellow, the tiny ketchup bow his mother lovingly squeezed on top a stark image that taunted him. His face felt tight as he swallowed thickly, his eyes burning when it suddenly hit him that he couldn’t _quite_ remember his mother’s face.

The omurice in reality though was… a failure. It was round and bright pink, perfectly glossy, throwing back his reflection of red rimmed eyes and tight lips. Inside, where the rice should’ve been, was something that looked a scaly moss ball, like a- a-

_Quiznak_ , why couldn’t he remember the word in Japanese?

Why couldn’t he even cook his childhood food, why couldn’t he remember what a moss ball was called in his _native tongue_? Why had it taken him this long to suddenly realise that he hadn’t actually spoken Japanese in _half a decade_. Why-

-The stove’s sad, questioning beep was the last straw.

Shiro bent over as the sob broke free, clutching the counter top as he struggled to hold it back, to _control it_ , to control anything that he could when he spent his days and nights feeling so out of control, so out of his depths. The omurice jiggled on the plate, the glossy pink finish of it mesmerising if only Shiro would look at it, but he couldn’t bring himself to, couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the truth of his childhood, breaking into pieces within the tenuous grasp of his fingers.

After what felt like hours, he finally wrestled his emotions down, biting his bottom lip to drive away the urge to carry on crying, and wiped his face clean. The stove chirped sadly at him, humming in eight bit when Shiro patted it, now mortified at his own loss of control.

“It’s okay,” he whispered to it, squeezing his eyes shut when they began to itch and burn again, when his throat threatened to choke him and his nostrils flared without his permission. “Just- I’m… going to go to sleep.”

Eyes downcast, Shiro turned to leave, the back of his neck and ears burning as the stove bid him farewell with a sad, melodic tune. He made sure to turn the light off, but beyond that couldn’t bring himself to look up, watching his own feet lead him to his room automatically.

He _did_ notice how Keith’s keypad was now lit, meaning he was inside, hopefully sleeping, and frowned when he noticed how Lance’s remained unlit, the boy still lost somewhere within the darkened halls of the ten thousand year old castle.

He’d… do something about that. Tomorrow. Or, well, _today_ , just hours later.

For now, though, he just didn’t want to think about anything.

… At least the craving was gone.

#

As soon as the castle lit up in its daytime cycle, Shiro rolled out of bed ready for the new day, more than willing to ignore the events that had taken place only hours before. He’d become good at that, he noted ruefully, but since he had absolutely no plans to touch on the mountains upon mountains of things he’d ignored, Shiro ignored that bit too.

The kitchen was full when he arrived, always the first place they all gathered together to start their day, the food goo machine dispensing the green, nutrient packed meal into bowls for them all. Pidge actually looked alert and awake, meaning she’d actually gone to sleep when Shiro had shoved her into her room last night, but, as if in direct contrast, Lance looked _terrible_.

So did Keith actually, though he just looked _tired_ if the yawn meant anything, while Lance just looked straight up _exhausted_.

Seating himself at the table, Shiro cocked an eyebrow at the boy he’d all but adopted as his little brother, the other rising when Keith grumbled intelligible at him to keep quiet, shooting a pointed look at Lance. Okay, he thought to himself, slightly alarmed, so whatever was going on with Lance and now Keith had to do with why the two had been absent from their rooms last night. They didn’t look _angry_ at each other, considering they were sitting right next to one another with their elbows brushing as they sleepily ate their food, but _still_.

Even Pidge was shooting them curious looks, actually awake enough to notice her surroundings for once.

But as long as they weren’t fighting or making themselves this exhausted every day, Shiro figured he could leave them to it. Probably. _Hopefully._

Coran bounced into the room happily, Allura’s prim and proper footsteps following in his wake. “Ah,” she greeted them all pleasantly, “Good, you are all here. You’ll be pleased to know that today I’ve decided to allow you all to… rest.”

Shiro’s lips twitched at the way the word sounded so foreign to her. Alteans were terrifying if the concept of ‘rest’ was unknown to them.

Lance perked up happily at her announcement, and to Shiro’s surprise, shot Keith a pleading look, eyes wide and sparkling. Keith huffed irritably at him, but the slope of his shoulders and the eye roll he gave was acquiescence enough. The smile that stretched across the blue paladin’s face was almost radiant, tempered by the slight tightness at the corners of his eyes Shiro had noticed the presence off since Hunk had been placed in the cryopod.

“Oh good,” Coran murmured quietly from beside him, armed with his own bowl of food goo as he took the seat next to Shiro. “I see he’s taken my advice.”

Curious, Shiro shot the Altean a questioning look, more focused on how quickly Lance shovelled the food into his mouth then sat impatiently while Keith took his time with his own. “What advice was that?”

Coran’s smile was fond yet melancholic, a mixture that made Shiro uncomfortable in how familiar it was, in how it reminded him of memories he’d spent the past few hours shoving back into a tiny box within his very core. “He’d been all but miserable after number two’s injury,” the Altean explained, inclining his head towards Lance, his words something Shiro had known already. “Had come to me asking if there were any weapons around that wasn’t the bayards, or a gun to be more specific. Said something more close range, perhaps. And once I showed him the armory-” there was an _armory_? And yet the Alteans had let Shiro run around fighting with his Galran _arm_? “-he’d asked if there was a training simulation so he could learn how to use said weapon.”

Lance had _what_?

“Oh, don’t look so concerned,” Coran huffed at him, the sadness replaced with amusement at the no doubt alarmed look Shiro sported. “I didn’t set him loose all on his lonesome at the gladiators, goodness no. You humans could barely handle level five with your own, personal bayards that first day. I know for a fact you can’t handle even level one with a new weapon, goodness. I told him he should ask Keith to train with him. So he could truly learn and develop his own style against a real combatant, someone that could regulate both their safety too.”

Oh. _Oh_. _That’s_ why Lance looked excited yet tired, _that’s_ why Keith was willing to sit through the Cuban boy constantly elbowing him to eat _faster_ , and why the two had been absent from their rooms last night. Maybe Lance had stayed after to carry on training, maybe-

“I’ll be supervising them in the viewing area after this, since it looks like Lance has talked Keith into more training after breakfast,” Coran hummed knowingly, giving him the side-eye. “Why don’t you join me? Perhaps you’ll find some area of improvement you can help Lance with yourself.”

Shiro was already nodding before Coran had even finished speaking, mind tripping over itself as to what he could do, how he could _help_ , a pleased warmth blooming in his chest at the knowledge that Lance and Keith really had come such a long way since the beginning, that Lance had _asked Keith for help_ , and Keith had _responded_. And now the two were sitting next to each other, body language relaxed and open, and holy quiznak, he could barely even recognise Keith, could he?

_‘Angry little duckling’_ Matt used to call him, after the few times he’d run into Keith only for Keith to promptly run off. And now here Keith was, rolling his eyes at the sort of person Keith used to make a mission out of avoiding, Pidge kicking them both under the table in suspicious persistence as Allura scolded them like children.

All that was missing was Hunk, and his veritable spread of goods that warmed them from the inside and bolstered their mood. Four days without good food was four days too many.

Finally finishing up, Keith let Lance drag him away, the Cuban shouting farewells for the both of them, Pidge shouting back a promise to _figure them out_. Shiro quickly forced down what remained of his own breakfast, forcing himself not to taste it lest he throw it back up. Coran was kind enough to wait for him, and soon enough they were both leaving with their own farewells, Pidge’s confused suspicion growing as she watched Shiro dog Coran’s steps.

Oh right, Shiro realised dimly, it was usually _Lance_ who dogged the older Altean’s steps. Yet another reason why they needed a rotating chore sheet, geez.

The viewing area to the training room had a different entrance, one with a platform that rose as soon as Shiro stopped next to Coran, leading them to another door that slid open to allow them entry. The inside of it was shaped much like the Black Lion’s cockpit, large with a wide viewing screen and control panels that lit up in the castle’s default blue glow. Shiro stepped up to the window, quickly noticing the two figures that were stretching down below, and felt his eyebrows rise when he saw Keith helping Lance with his stretches.

“What made him decide to try a new weapon, anyway?” Shiro asked distractedly, watching Coran tinker around with the illegible buttons.

Coran frowned down at the buttons, then turned that frowned onto Shiro as he said, “Didn’t I tell you? He reacted quite badly to Hunk’s injury.” At Shiro’s blank look, Coran cocked a confused eyebrow at him, and, slowly, explained, “He _blames himself_ for Hunk’s injury. Said if you or Keith had been with him Hunk would have been fine.”

Oh. _Oh._

That…

“Exactly,” Coran huffed, shaking his head wonderingly, “I told him it was complete and utter nonsense considering you were all in your _lions_ , but that boy can get surprisingly stubborn when he wants to. Once I realised he wasn’t going to let it go, I took him to the armoury and talked him into asking number four for help.”

“Why not me?” Shiro asked curiously, eyeing the boys’ forms as they took position opposite each other.

“Oh, I _tried_!” Exclaimed Coran huffily, hands waving expressively in the air. “But he kept refusing, said you were busy and he didn’t want to bother you! Do you have _any_ idea how long it took to get him to at least ask Keith? Goodness, that _boy_. Like a teething _Warbalto_ , I swear.”

Busy? Shiro wasn’t busy. God, Shiro _wished_ he was busy – half the time he wished the Galra could just attack already just so he’d have something to _do_ , something to stop him from _thinking_ so much. He’d have _loved_ to help Lance out, especially if it was something that would help keep him more safe. Help keep _any_ of them more safe. He’d have probably roped Keith into it too, especially if it was a sword Lance had picked out, but-

-Wait, what _had_ Lance chosen from the armoury, anyway?

His answer came when Lance whipped out a small rectangular shape, squeezed it, and both ends suddenly shot out into a-

“Coran,” Shiro wheezed, eyes trained on the long, double-bladed staff Lance twirled with expert grace. “I want to see the armoury.”

Coran, befuddled, replied, “Keith had reacted the exact same way! You Earthlings are _truly_ strange creatures.”

Down below, unaware of their audience, the red and blue paladin’s collided, Keith’s sword sliding against Lance’s staff, the Cuban using his longer legs and slimmer build to his advantage to dance out of the way of Keith’s powerful swings. Shiro could see where the boy needed improvement – while his footwork was great, his arms and head were always just a bit too close to Keith’s sword – but for someone that had supposedly only started four days ago? It was amazing.

Mesmerising, in fact.

Reminded him of something.

Lance spun out of another slash, spinning the staff around and bringing it down with both hands, momentum strong and steady. Keith blocked it on instinct, but the downward swing turned out to be too strong, forcing him to let his sword fall back while he rolled out of the way himself.

Kendo.

_That’s_ what it reminded him off.

He watched on, making mental notes to bring up later, strategizing on how to tell Lance that he knew, uncomfortable about the fact that he couldn’t quite tell how the boy might react. Would he be angry or betrayed that Coran had let Shiro know? Or would he be relieved that Shiro wanted to help? Why didn’t Shiro already know? Why couldn’t he accurately guess how one of his own teammates would react in such a situation?

The two finished up an hour later, Lance sprawled out panting while Keith sat beside him, equally out of breath. Coran tap tap tapped around at the control panel, doing god knew what, but Shiro’s mind was elsewhere. He bid the Altean goodbye, deciding to head out first while the boys were catching their breath, Coran waving him bye.

His father had been a kendo enthusiast, he thought to himself as the alien elevator took him down. Had pursued it in his youth but finally quit when he’d gotten a respectable job and a respectable wife. Had still made sure to read a young Shiro night time stories of his so-called ‘renegade days’, of tournaments and friends, of victories and losses, sighing wistfully when he’d walk Shiro to school some days past the building that used to be his dojo.

And then years later, while Shiro had just been finishing up a class in high school, he’d died. Breathed his last in the hospital just as Shiro had come rushing in. Because of a car crash, of all things, with an unknown woman in the passenger seat.

His mistress. Of _four years_.

Shiro had been _pissed_.

And now, even more years later, while Shiro made his way down the hallway away from a training room with two, determined boys, he found himself less angry, less betrayed, less hurt. There was still some there, of course, but…

Kerberos had happened. The Galra had happened. Zarkon and the Black lion and Allura and Coran and _these_ _four_ _kids_ he’d suddenly found himself responsible four had happened.

He still didn’t want to think about it, not really. But maybe he could let a few thoughts in every now and then. Stop strangling it all down only for it to try and drown him every other night. Maybe.

#

If there were any silver linings to all his past failures, it was _this_ , Shiro huffed to himself in laughter. He was starting to figure out the kitchen, finally; what was edible, what was toxic, what was seasoning and what was just plain old dangerous.

The stove helped out once it seemingly realised what, exactly, was the problem, chirping a jaunty tune of approval or rapid, harsh beeps in warning when Shiro held out something for its inspection. It was touch and go for a while there – he’d made a few more of the failed hot chocolates, liberating a rather large container he’d found in what looked like a janitor’s closet to house the quickly growing garden of purple juniberry’s in his bedroom. He was going to give it to Allura, he kept telling himself even as the day’s rolled by, he was definitely going to give it to her. Soon.

But he found himself reluctant to actually _make_ something, afraid of failure once more. Stove must have caught on, because one day, after making yet another juniberry hot chocolate fail, the stove _spat out_ a… a _magazine_ , the glossy paper wet with something that _looked_ like saliva, but couldn’t be saliva _because_ _it came from a stove_.

Genuinely concerned that what he’d considered a stove might actually have been a _sentient creature_ , Shiro picked up the torn paper with a thumb and index finger, pulling a face at how… _wet_ it was. Stove’s excited beeping didn’t exactly make him feel any better, but he gamely spread it out (ignoring the wet… _something_ now on his fingers) across the countertop besides the kitchen appliance ( _was_ it a kitchen appliance? Maybe it was something like a yupper, maybe everything since Kerberos was just Shiro stuck in a deep coma back on Earth).

It was a – soggy – recipe, he noted, eyebrows climbing to his hairline as he realised he could actually read it, could actually understand it. The picture looked simple enough, and a quick read through confirmed it for him. A salad. A simple, no fuss no muss salad.

Stove wanted him to make a _salad_.

Well… maybe he could try it, a little.

Armed with the – slowly drying – recipe, Shiro gave Stove a thumbs up, Stove’s victory beeps egging him on as he rummaged around the empty kitchen for the needed items. He already knew where the cooking board was, already knew where the knives were, and, happily enough, already knew where all of the ingredients the recipe called for where except for one.

No problem, he told himself, humming quietly to himself as he gathered everything up, Stove joining in after listening long enough to catch the rhythm. The feel of it, the dicing and the chopping and the scraping into a bowl, it was all relaxing, lulling Shiro into a sort of meditative state he hadn’t felt in what might have been forever.

Stove encouraged him onwards, red and green and blue blinking on and off in tune with its beeps, both of them taking turns at setting the rhythm to their song, setting the pace.

He paused only when he came to the last ingredient, the one he wasn’t familiar with, and frowned a little in thought. The recipe stated that it was meant for seasoning, which the castle was already running low on anyway since Hunk wasn’t around to demand they stock up. But maybe… oh, maybe if he used that one, instead? Stove beeped approvingly at him when he held up the packet, its seal of endorsement enough to get Shiro back into tempo.

Finally, the salad was done, and Shiro put down his knife and beamed proudly at it. It actually looked decent, for once! Exactly how the image looked in the now crackly dried magazine paper. Stove all but wiggled in its place between the countertops, letting loose a victory beep and rapidly opening and closing its oven door in a Stove-like ovation.

Pleased as punch, Shiro whipped out a fork and spun it with agile fingers, momentarily remembering Lance and his staff, how he hadn’t spoken to the boy yet, how he _still_ didn’t know just how, exactly, to broach the topic. He’d do that soon, too. Maybe even today, after trying out his salad. Maybe he’d make everyone salad after this! They could, maybe, eat it with their food goo, possibly.

Seated at the empty dining table, fork in hand, Shiro stabbed it into his bowl, catching the green leaves within it. He brought it up to his mouth, about to bite into it, when the kitchen doors suddenly hissed open, Coran breezing through with Lance right at his heels. The Altean made a beeline for the messy countertop, Shiro’s work clearly visible from the used cutting board to the cut off stems messily spread around, and grabbed a _very_ familiar packet, loudly proclaiming, “Here it is! Jehvai’s _beard_ , it would’ve been catastrophic if you Earthlings had ingested this! Why, it would make your metabolism speed up by _viktals_ until your entire body shrivelled up like a _trekvra_ and turned to dust! Come, Lance! Back to the med bay!”

And then breezed right back out.

Shiro, fork right at his open mouth, slowly lowered it to the table.

Because the packet Coran had just taken with him had been the exact packet Shiro had used for _seasoning_.

He stood up, bowl and fork in hand, and made his way to the incinerator, tossing it and the contaminated bowl and fork into it. Stove remained silent, but Shiro was pretty certain he saw something that looked like a cable slowly inch towards the magazine paper and tear it into tiny little shreds.

That was probably for the best.

#

When Hunk finally – _finally_ – woke up, it was to Lance camped out in an alcove ten feet off the ground to Kaltenecker’s room with his sniper bayard trained on anybody that would dare come near his precious cow. And by anybody, Shiro specifically meant a meat-crazed Pidge and Keith, and – confusingly – Allura, who apparently didn’t understand that Pidge and Keith wanted to _eat_ the cow since all she wanted was a _milkshake_. Which she wouldn’t be able to get if Pidge and Keith succeeded.

Maybe he should tell her. Or maybe he shouldn’t. He’d always known Lance was a crackshot with his bayard, but seeing the laser scorch the ground an inch away from Pidge or Keith’s feet whenever they passed his self-imposed barrier was something else.

Hunk’s return to the land of the living immediately lowered the tension, if for no other reason than his exuberant reappearance in the kitchen meaning no more food goo. Kaltenecker was safe once more, though having learnt the lesson of his friends’ questionable loyalties, Lance had apparently asked Coran for help with locking the room with a high-tech keypad.

Shiro should probably tell him Pidge could easily hack that. But then again, maybe he shouldn’t. That cow _unnerved him_.

“Whassup,” Pidge greeted him drowsily one morning, glasses perched on her hair for once. “I barely saw you ‘round while Hunk was in cryo. What kept you so busy?”

Shiro, with his dish of delicious, Hunk cooked food, froze. Then Lance _thankfully_ walked in and made a beeline for Keith, allowing Shiro to quickly blurt out, “That’s new, isn’t it? Isn’t that new? Do you think they actually became friends because of Hunk’s injury?”

Pidge blinked owlishly back at him, confused by the sudden turnaround, too slow with sleep to make sense of it as she slowly replied, “Uuuuh…. Maybe? I think Keith is helping Lance out with training or something, since Lance seems to blame himself for Hunk getting hurt, but, like, he always does that. And Hunk does the same with Lance. They’re, like, _weird_ with each other.”

Laughing fondly, Shiro said, “That’s what friends do, Pidge.”

The girl pulled a disgusted face, grumbling, “So _stupid_ ,” under her breath, and then the glasses were swiped down to the bridge of her nose, a tablet came out of nowhere, and she was gone, lost in the illegible coding that made up her passion.

Good, Shiro thought with a relieved sigh, she’d forgotten about him.

After breakfast, Shiro offered to clean up the dishes, Hunk graciously accepting with a pleased hum. Hands wet with suds, Shiro scrubbed them clean, the monotony of the chore once more lulling him into relaxing. Hunk was an added balm to the soul, a steadying presence Shiro had sorely missed, and the two easily navigated the space around them with no trouble as the others filtered out, leaving them alone.

“Hey Shiro,” Hunk asked, “pass me the _kravga_.”

“Sure,” Shiro agreed, already reaching to grab the cucumber looking ingredient from what was essentially a fruit basket. He held it out to Hunk, already turning to do something else, maybe wipe down Stove, say hello since he hadn’t been around the kitchen long enough to say hi lately, but… Hunk didn’t take it.

Eyebrows furrowing together, Shiro turned to look at him, already thinking of worst case scenarios, of Hunk passing out because he hadn’t been healed properly, or maybe he’d jumped back into normal life too quickly and hurt himself, or maybe-

-Hunk was staring back at him contemplatively.

Surprised, Shiro stared back, _kravga_ still in hand, and carefully said, “Hunk…?”

Finally, after a pointed moment of silence, Hunk wrapped a firm hand around the space-cucumber, smiled benignly at Shiro’s confusion, and turned away to do whatever it was he was doing. “Thanks, Shiro!”

“Uh…” Shiro smartly replied, “You’re welcome?”

Hunk just smiled, starting up a quiet hum that sounded like a sweet lullaby. Stove prodded Shiro with a cable, the appendage waving at its dirty surface in a silent plea for help, and, dumbly, still confused by whatever _that_ had been, Shiro grabbed a wet rag and began to do just that, shrugging off the confusion after a while of nothing new happening.

The cryopod did weird things to people, probably. He should ask Coran about that, actually. Learn what exactly the cryopods even _did_. That seemed like it’d be useful information.

#

He was in the training room, stretching his muscles, getting his heart pumped up, actually _training_ for what felt like the first time in a damn long while. It felt _good_ , the steady _thump_ of his fists making contact, the fact that he could challenge himself by refusing to use his Galra arm for anything other than what a normal arm could do, _pushing himself_ , only thinking of his next move, his opponent’s ability, his strategy to _win_.

When the last gladiator fell through the ground, Shiro fell with them, sprawling out across the floor like a starfish, panting harshly as he slowly came down from the high. His father had tried to explain it to him before; how focused he used to get in a match back when he did kendo, how the _shinai_ melted away until it was only an extension of himself, how everything would bleed into nonexistence except for him, his opponent, and the ring. Shiro had never understood back then. He’d found it cool, had been in _awe_ of the stories his father had told him as he carried a tiny Shiro around on his shoulders, had begged and cajoled his father for more and more while his older sister huffed and called him a _daddy’s boy_.

He’d never understood, but now, older and wearier, he finally did.

A few years too late, maybe, but Shiro, for once, found he couldn’t really blame himself for that.

A hydration pouch came into his field of vision, the hand holding it familiar in it’s long digits and bronzed skin. Shiro pushed himself up to sit, accepting the drink with a welcoming, thankful smile to the newcomer.

Lance smiled back, though it was distracted, his eyes trailing away to where the gladiators had been only moments ago.

_Ah_ , Shiro suddenly remembered, he’d wanted to talk to Lance about the staff training, hadn’t he? He’d actually forgotten, too caught up in Hunk falling out of the cryopod and magically returning the castle to its status quo.

“Hey,” he greeted the Cuban, eyeing him a little, taking in the slight downturn of his lips and his forlorn expression. Had something gone wrong with his training? “What’s up?”

Lance hummed distractedly, waving away his concern with a flippant, “Oh nothing, just wandering around. Saw you finishing up in here and thought I’d bring over a drink.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Shiro dutifully said, grateful for the forethought. “But you look distracted. What’s on your mind, buddy?”

Lance actually looked at him then, eyes sharpening into focus as he realised Shiro wasn’t going to just let it go. “I’m good, man, don’t worry about me. What about _you_? You were pretty into that training just now. You ok?”

Him? Shiro? “Yeah, I’m fine,” Shiro replied, eyebrows rising in surprise at the question. Why wouldn’t he be fine? He was even allowing himself to think of home, nowadays – that psychology class he’d taken for extra credit would say this was good news, that he was finally ‘healing’ or whatever. “Is this about your training? I saw you and Keith one time; you were really good with that staff, Lance.”

Lance expression turned into sheer _horror_ , mortification colouring his words as he groaned, “Oh god no, you actually _saw_? Oh my god, noooooo,” and covered his face.

Shiro laughed, not unkindly, and pushed himself up to his feet, tugging Lance’s hands away from his face gently. “Oh, come on,” he pressed, “I wasn’t lying, you were great! I actually saw some places where you could improve a bit and wanted to talk to you to see if you wanted to spar with me some time, but then that whole cow thing happened and then Hunk.”

“Nooooooo,” Lance moaned again, even more morose, “You saw the whole _cow thing_ , oh goooood, kill me noooow.”

Shiro snickered, he couldn’t help it, because the cow thing had been actually funny. “Did Allura ever get her milkshake, then?”

Peaking out from between his fingers, Lance stared up at him and responded, “Yeah. Once I realised that was all she wanted I made her some and she just happily left.”

Go figure. Shiro had seen Coran with a milkshake every now and then too. Seemed the Alteans really liked it for some reason.

“But seriously,” Shiro pressed again, gently working at Lance’s disquiet like a dog with a bone, “What’s up, buddy? You know you can tell me anything.”

Lance’s eyes went downcast, shoulders slumping a little, but he finally removed his hands from his face and mumbled, “I always… lose _focus_ , when I’m sparring with Keith. I’m always doing great at the beginning,” he explained, voice growing stronger as he got into it, “and everything’s fine and great, but then just as I’m really getting into it all of a sudden I’ll-”

He cut off, eyes widening for a moment before swinging downwards, breaking away from Shiro.

With something approaching dread creeping up on him, Shiro gently repeated, “All of a sudden you’ll…?”

“Hunk!” Lance burst out, eyes wide and panicked. “I keep seeing him getting _hurt_ , right there, right in _front of me_ , because I can’t do anything if the enemies get too close and he had to use _his_ bayard as a _quiznaking battering ram_ to try and _protect me_ and he got _hurt_ because of it- because of _me_ \- and he missed his birthday and he said it didn’t matter and I know it does, I _know_ it does because his family are, like, _super big_ on birthdays and it’s really bumming him out that he wasn’t even _awake_ for it because he got hurt – _hurt_! – because of me! I always lose focus because of that right in the middle of sparring and Keith _wins_! How the _hell_ am I supposed to protect him, protect _anyone_ , if all I can do is _shoot good_?”

Oh. _Oh_. Coran may have understated the feelings of guilt a little there. Shiro would have to have words with him. But for now-

“Lance,” he said quietly, firmly, “Lance, you have to listen to me.”

Lance snapped his mouth shut, eyes still wide, chest heaving a little as he came down from the sudden adrenaline rush. His eyes stayed locked on Shiro, though, which was good, because Shiro needed him to _listen_.

“Lance,” he repeated slowly, clearly enunciating every syllable, “It wasn’t your fault.”

He immediately held a hand up against Lance’s immediate denial, already having planned for it, and repeated, “ _Listen_ to me.”

When Lance slowly settled down again, still hesitant, still brimming at the seams to tell him he was _wrong_ , that it _had_ been Lance’s fault, Shiro lowered his own hand.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated, quickly rushing on before Lance could interrupt, “ _But_ I know you won’t believe me, not now at least, so I’m just going to say _it wasn’t your fault_ , and move on. Even though it _wasn’t your fault_ , you’re still doing everything you can right now to make sure it doesn’t happen again, you’re _trying_ , Lance, and that’s the best thing anybody in this universe could ever hope to do, and if what I saw in your fight with Keith was anything, you’re doing _amazing_. So you want to have more ways to protect everyone, including _yourself_ -” he stressed, “-that’s fine, there’s nothing wrong with that. But until you understand that there’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent what happened to Hunk, that all you can do is try your best to prevent it from happening again, you’ll continue to keep freezing up while sparring. You’re holding _yourself_ back, Lance, and you won’t improve until you _let it go_. Trust me,” he added on with his lips twisted up self-deprecatingly, thinking of home, home, _home_ , “I should know. And as for Hunk’s birthday, leave it to me.” He concluded spontaneously, suddenly alighting with an idea. “It might be a bit late, but my mother always used to say better late than never. I’ll take care of it. Promise.”

Lance stared at him wordlessly, eyes shrewd in their focus, laser sharp and searching, looking for something Shiro hoped he’d find. After a long, pointed moment, the blue paladin relaxed like his strings had suddenly been cut, body loosening into the limp noodles Shiro had initially known the boy for.

He could mentally hear Stove’s victory beep, could see it in the way Lance sheepishly rubbed at the back of his neck as Shiro finally, _finally_ , got around to asking the question he’d been wanting to ask for days.

“So, do you want to spar with me, maybe? Learn some new moves to throw Keith on his ass the next time you guys spar?”

The slow spread of Lance’s lips, from small to wide, was a victory beep all on its own.

#

It was early morning the next day, far too early to actually be morning yet far too late to be night, either definitions lost in translation when one was in space. Shiro paid it no mind, seated at the kitchen’s dining table as he was, fingers steeped together in heavy thought, lips pursed.

He’d told Lance to leave it to him, to let him do what needed to be done for Hunk’s passed birthday. In retrospect, he had absolutely no idea _when_ Hunk’s birthday had been, or when any of the team’s was save Keith’s, and found it to be yet another gross oversight of his duty as a leader. He’d deal with that some other time (his to-deal-with-later list was getting extensive, even by his own standards), but for now, he’d focus on Hunk.

Or, specifically, what he wanted to do _for_ Hunk.

He pretty much knew the lay of the kitchen by now, knew where everything was and what each and every ingredient did. The few stuff he didn’t know he needed to steer clear away from, lest he endanger everyone again like he had with that seasoning-but-not-a-seasoning thing. But that was okay, because if he was right, he wouldn’t need anything new.

Everything he’d need for _this_ recipe required ingredients he’d already used. Ingredients he _knew_. And best part was: he’d seen Hunk make it.

In the first few days of their exposure to the castle, Shiro had been right there when Hunk had first ventured into the cooking area of the kitchen, braving it for the sake of no longer having to suffer food goo. Shiro had been adamant about supervising Hunk, even if he’d known it was ridiculous since he knew _nothing_ about cooking, let alone _alien_ cooking, but Hunk – completely unaware of Shiro’s inaptitude in the kitchen – had welcomed adult supervision wholly.

And that had led to the cake.

It had been Hunk’s first success, a simple sponge cake shaped strangely like a cat, fluffy and perfect save for lacking a little in flavour. Hunk had been ecstatic, and Shiro – the first person to tentatively try it – had been equally pleased.

Now he was even _more_ pleased, because he _knew how to make it_.

This wasn’t the first time he’d baked, actually. Rolling non-existent sleeves up, Shiro grabbed a bowl and all the necessary ingredients, affectionately patting Stove on the cooktop as he grabbed what he’d come to realise was a whisk.

He’d done it before, once, when he’d been a wide-eyed brat with an older sister he’d half worshipped. Akito had been loud where he’d been quiet, with perpetually scabbed knees when he’d been prim and proper, adventurous and excitable when he’d been amiable and calm. And yet he’d trotted after her every step, following in her loud, exuberant wake, basking in the way she’d throw an arm over his shoulder, how she’d play with him even though she’d been four years his senior.

And one day, when his parent’s anniversary had come around, they’d both gotten it into their heads to bake them a cake in celebration. He’d been young, what, maybe eight? And she’d been twelve, so eager to be an adult yet irrevocably a child. They’d made such a mess of the kitchen, flour and chocolate and strawberries strewn everywhere, both of them pleased as punch when the sorry mess of a baked good had been received with warm gratitude from gentle parents.

Older and – hopefully – wiser, Shiro whisked what he needed to whisk, cracked what he needed to crack, and poured what he needed to pour. He worked on autopilot, emulating what little he could remember from the fuzzy memories of childhood and the far clearer memory of Hunk, taste testing every ingredient nervously before he hesitantly used them.

He wondered what Akito was up to these days, what she might be doing this instant. If she ever thought about him, how she’d taken the Kerberos news when the Garrison had finally caved in and labelled them dead. She’d been written down as his next of kin, because despite everything, despite how Shiro had reacted badly to his father’s death and his betrayal from the grave, despite how he’d run away and never looked back, she’d still been his sister, and the legal team at the Garrison had refused to leave that part blank.

Mostly that second reason, to be honest, but Shiro was grateful for it now anyway.

It would have been _fine_ , even, if his dad had just died like a normal cheater, like every other man or woman out there that had betrayed their spouse. Shiro was sure he would’ve gotten over it sooner or later, maybe after pitching a fit or two.

But to then have to deal with a _love child_? To have this eleven year old kid suddenly thrusted into what little remained of his family’s _household_? To have this dark haired kid who’d looked just like Shiro but embodied everything his father had done left to the care of his grieving _mother_? Shiro had _lost his shit_ , throwing away his acceptance letter into the university of Tokyo, and applied for the Garrison _all the way in America_ just to get away from it all. In the two weeks it had taken the Garrison to enthusiastically reply, Shiro had all but shunned what was essentially his half-brother, Ryou, refusing to acknowledge him, even when his poor mother had done what was _proper_ and accepted the responsibility of raising him.

He’d never given it much thought how his sister had reacted, had never even stopped to think how she’d felt with a sudden, new younger brother, had never even _thought_ for a minute what Ryou must have felt, eleven years old and freshly orphaned, left with his father’s first family, his _real_ family.

It must have been horrible, Shiro realised in the empty silence of the kitchen, with nothing to do but wait for Stove to bake his cake. Shiro had been _horrible_.

When Stove finally spat the cake out, Shiro used a nifty alien thing to cool it down within seconds, carefully and gently layering them together, glazing it all with the same glaze he’d accidentally made when making omurice, except less transparent and jiggly this time. When he finally finished, icing and all done, he stood back, eyeing it in all its glory, and found he couldn’t stop the smile overtaking his face even if he wanted to.

The cake was glorious – all three tiers of it – and Shiro was so damn proud he could _cry_ , because after his father had died, after Shiro had run away never to look back, he’d always thought of that cake he'd baked with his sister as a waste, as something that had failed to keep his parents happily (and monogamously) married. Now though, years later, it finally stopped feeling like that. The cake he’d made to celebrate his parent’s anniversary, to celebrate his parent’s _marriage_ that had broken apart in a fiery car crash that had scattered the rest of them far and wide, finally felt like it had _meaning_ again.

When he got back to Earth – _when_ , he mentally repeated giddily, knowing full well that it had always been _if_ before – he was going to contact them. Contact _all_ of them. Akito was _definitely_ going to hit him.

He looked forward to it.

#

Five AM on the castle clock triggered the start of the castle’s day cycle, and since today was the resurgence of Allura’s strict daily scheduling, Shiro knew the team would be making their way en masse to the kitchen soon enough.

Soon turned out to be an understatement, as only a minute after he’d placed the cake at the dining table, he heard the kitchen doors hiss open. Turning around, Shiro greeted the team with a wave, not bothering to hide the cake, smiling wide as he saw Hunk amongst the morning crowd.

“Hunk!” He greeted exuberantly, riding on the coattails of his resolve, finally feeling like something – _something_ – had settled within him. “Happy belated birthday, buddy!”

Hunk’s face went blank, then transformed into surprise, then – eyes finally catching the cake – widened into absolute shock. “Holy-” the yellow paladin started, only to be interrupted by Lance’s “-Crow!”

Shiro beamed as the entire team rushed in to see the cake better, making space for them to peruse it, even the Alteans fascinated by three layered cake he’d decked out in bright pink. He would’ve done it in yellow if he knew _what_ exactly could be used as food colouring, but he and Stove had been especially careful to use only what they already knew they could use. No need to invite danger. Everything they’d used in the cake was something Hunk had used before hand, something they – meaning the humans _and_ Alteans – had all eaten before.

“Holy shit,” Keith breathed, staring at the cake and Shiro in turn, “ _You_ actually _cooked_?”

“Technically baked,” Shiro replied smugly, knowing full well Keith knew just how bad Shiro was in the kitchen. At least here in space he had alien food to blame for his ineptitude – back on Earth he’d burned water with no legitimate excuse.

“Wait,” Pidge said slowly, and oh no, that was her genius voice, that was the way her voice sounded right before she figured something out, “Is _this_ what you’ve been busy with, lately? Holy shit, it _is_! You’ve been in here cooking and stuff while the rest of us were asleep, haven’t you?!”

Lance’s head shot up, eyes wide with sudden realisation, “Is _that_ why you haven’t been in your room lately? And oh- _oh_ -! Did _you_ make that weird pink jelly thing with the green moss looking stuff inside? Oh man, that shit was _delicious_ , like an omelette wrapped around jello or something, holy crow, I _needed_ that after training.”

Wait- _what_? “You did _what_? I thought I threw that away!” Except he _hadn’t_ , oh _god_ , he’d actually left it hadn’t he? Just straight up left the entire kitchen that night, too busy drowning in the thought of his past mistakes and his family to get his head straight enough to _throw away the evidence_ , good _god_.

But Lance looked like he’d seen heaven, staring at the cake with something close to worship in his eyes, “Oh my god,” he breathed, salivating a little, “If this cake tastes _anything_ like that pink omelette thing, I’m going to _die_ , I want it so _badly_.”

“Absolutely not, young man,” Coran smacked Lance’s reaching hand down, even as he shot the cake his own, speculative look. “This was made for Hunk’s birthday. As such, he should be the first to taste it, don’t you think?”

Everyone turned to Hunk as one. Hunk, in response, stared at Shiro thoughtfully.

“Huh,” he finally said, much to Shiro’s growing discomfort. Hunk’s perceptiveness always made him _so uncomfortable_ , good _god_. Then he smiled, wide and pleased, the smile that lit the whole room up and kept them all at ease. “Aaaaw, this is amazing! You really didn’t have to, Shiro!”

Utterly unnerved already, Shiro awkwardly waved the gratitude away. “Thank Lance. I hadn’t even realised your birthday had come up until he mentioned it. He wanted to do something for you but didn’t know what, so I offered to help out. You deserve it, Hunk.”

Hunk turned to his friend, ignoring Lance ducking his head shyly, and gave him a huge hug. Shiro couldn’t back out when Hunk turned on him too, awkwardly returning the bear hug with a few back pats. Geez, if Hunk kept training under Allura’s supervision, he was going to be _terrifying_. Hunk’s hugs were already hinting at back-breaking potential.

They all finally sat around the table, everyone with a plate and utensils, and Hunk – with the knife to cut the first slice – unceremoniously handed it off to Shiro. “You should do it, man. You baked it, after all.”

Shiro tried to refuse, he really did, but Hunk was a special kind of stubborn, one Shiro had noticed during the whole Balmera thing. A good sort of stubborn. Finally giving in, Shiro took the knife and angled it above the cake, moving to slice into it.

Except… it didn’t go in, because the cake _slid out of the way_.

But that was impossible, Shiro told himself, blinking in rapid succession, cake’s couldn’t do that, they couldn’t _move_ , so he tried again, knife slicing downwards to _cut_ -

- _nothing_. The cake _screeched_ , shuffling out of the way, and when Shiro, now sweating, _tried one more time_ , the cake’s bottom layer ripped open into a jagged, toothy maw, and _crunched the knife into literal pieces_.

The room fell into deathly silence.

Shiro awkwardly laughed, broken and high pitched, his internal voice _screaming_.

The cake – and it’s open maw – slid threateningly _towards him_ , smearing pink glaze across the table top in it’s wake.

Shiro’s internal screaming reached a fever pitch.

The team finally snapped out of their daze and into action when Shiro almost lost a finger to the cake’s snapping jaws, hustling the cake into a hastily erected cage, all of them struggling to keep their limbs away from the sentient pissed cake. Once successfully caged, Coran rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, reviewing the ingredients Shiro had used out of baffled curiosity, Hunk anxiously watching over his shoulder.

Keith was spread out on the floor _laughing_ , tears streaming down his reddening face, struggling to draw in breath. Shiro sat at the table mulishly, peeved to kingdom come as he waited for the verdict, wondering how he’d fucked up _this time_ , when Coran finally straightened up, plucking his tablet out from who knew where and tap tap tapping at it.

“Well, I’ll be,” he finally announced, all of them ignoring Keith as he continued to laugh uncontrollably, only Lance seemingly worried that the boy would pass out from lack of breath. “I actually can’t see anything wrong here, all the ingredients you use are perfectly edible for both Alteans and Earthlings.”

“But then, _how_ did it come alive?” Pidge asked, staring in bewildered fascination as the cake attempted to _chew its way out_ of the cage.

Coran cleared his throat, equally seeming fascinated by the cake’s escape attempt, but dutifully answered with, “Well, it’s not _his_ fault, it’s… ah… the planet we happened to pass a _varga_ ago, or so. It’s actually an interesting thing, you see, because that specific planet happens to be right in the central line between two fugal intersections, which basically means everything we know about physics and the laws of the universe are practically useless there! And so, somehow, at that very moment we entered that planet’s orbit and thus slipped through the fugal streams, Shiro just so happened to be baking this cake, and… well…”

The cake gnashed its teeth when they collectively turned to look at it, visibly displeased by their existence.

“You created life, number one!” Coran awkwardly enthused, expression vaguely unnerved. “The cake would’ve been perfectly fine if it had just been baked anywhere else. Literally _anywhere else_.”

Finally, gasping, Keith, still sprawled out on the floor, smacked a hand against Shiro’s knee, and when Shiro looked down at him, heaved, “Holy shit, Shiro, you’re _Frankenstein_.” And then promptly guffawed in Shiro’s face.

Shiro surreptitiously kicked him.

He was never, ever, _ever_ , going to cook again. _Ever_.

#

The chore sheet, when he finally got around to doing with it, was simple. With a castle time already well established, Shiro separated their days into weeks, creating a column for each chore needed and assigning someone to it.

In their first week, he kept everyone to what they were used too – Hunk in the kitchen, Keith to his communications, Pidge to maintenance and Lance to Coran. But in the second week, he forced them out of their comfort zone, but still played it safe. Lance was tasked with helping Hunk out, Shiro hoping their friendship and the fact that he knew Lance usually helped Hunk out _anyway_ would ease the transition. Keith couldn’t look Shiro in the face without snorting into a fist, and so he assigned him to Coran, hoping to at least be free of the little shit’s snickering face for a week, while he assigned Pidge to Keith’s communications shtick.

He himself joined Allura, actually seeing what it was she spent her days doing, listening attentively and finally – _finally_ – giving her the juniberry flowers when he remembered to. The shocked silence, then thankful tears, had been worth it, and the quiet story she’d told him of what the flowers meant to her, of what Altea had been before her ten thousand years of slumber, had been precious in a way Shiro hadn’t known it could be.

He’d told her about his family, back home. Spoke about them for the first time in more than five years. And it had only hurt a little. Progress, he thought, watering the one, lone, juniberry flower he’d kept to himself. Progress.

The third week, he threw Hunk at Coran, forcing them all into food goo territory, but then Lance had suggested – while all of them were together at that first Hunk-free breakfast – that Shiro take over Hunk’s spot as cook. Shiro immediately refused, throwing a hand wordlessly at the empty cage they’d used for the cake monster, only the faintest pink glaze denoting that it had ever even existed.

Bereft from the inter- _whatevers_ of the planet where it had been born, the cake hadn’t lasted long, succumbing to the laws of the universe and pretty much just… melting. Shiro would have nightmares about the drawn out wheeze it had given before folding in on itself.

But the other paladins agreed with Lance, electing the Cuban boy as their spokesperson, because Lance had eaten the damn failed omurice and _liked it_. And so Shiro found himself recreating it for breakfast the next day, found himself begging Coran to supervise him, to make sure everything he did was _okay_ , and then holding his breath when the team took their first, tentative, bites (except for Lance who inhaled it all like he’d taken to inhaling all his food, lately).

“Holy shit,” Keith spoke first, his previous laughter at the pink, jiggly glaze cut short, eyes dazed with hunger. “Holy _shit_ , this is _amazing_.”

Pidge agreed emphatically, “Shiro, _what the fuck_.”

“It reminds me of the _Ravi_ ’s _vishka_!” Allura happily squeaked, taking another bite of the alien omurice. “This is delicious, Shiro!”

Coran hummed, Lance wiping the plate clean next to him, and added, “Bit more of a desert than a breakfast food, I’d say. But delicious, certainly.”

And so Shiro was the cook for the week, despite his protests.

But he found he didn’t much mind.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

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